


Dirty Little Freaks

by maria_j_harper



Category: Homestuck, X-Men
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Humanstuck, M/M, Mutants, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maria_j_harper/pseuds/maria_j_harper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat is a new student at Dr. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and he is having trouble getting to sleep. Though whether this is due to his insomnia, or to his new roommate, not even he can say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Little Freaks

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and today you have no family. You stand in your room, at least, the man in the wheelchair says it’s your room. By all appearances though, it’s the other boy’s room. He doesn’t have to be here to make his presence known, the giant-ass turntables that seem to take up half the room do that just fine, as do the crap-load of shitty posters on the walls and good god, are those selfies? Not to mention the small shelf of dead things preserved in various ways.  
It isn’t hard to tell which bed is meant to be yours. His is utterly unkempt, and he’s personalized it with (tangled) card suit themed sheets. Not even your own perfectly made, perfectly generic bed is safe from his mess however, and you gingerly pick a sock off of it an add it to what could possibly be called the laundry pile, thought the majority of the floor could fit under that descriptor.  
“Mr. Strider is used to having this room to himself.” The man in the wheelchair says apologetically. He has told you to call him Dr. X, as all the students do. “He is in class at the moment, but you will be meeting him later. In the mean time Mr. Vantas, try to make yourself at home. I know that now is a difficult and confusing time for you, as it is for many, but I hope that you will come to view this school and those inside it as a sort of family.”  
He leaves you alone with your bags. You sit on your bed.  
Family! What’s it good for anyways? Telling you “it’s for your own good” and sending you away like a freak?  
They were just looking out for you the best they knew how. They love you.  
If they love you, why the hell are you here in a strange place, struggling to find a place to put your things in the sea of shit your new ass-hole of a room mate left?  
If there’s one thing that can stop your interior monologue of deep-seated self hatred, it’s remembering that insufferable prick. You haven’t even met him, but you can already tell he’s a fucking douche muffin if you ever saw one. You glare at one of his selfies. Who the fuck puts selfies on their wall? Fucking weirdos and narcissists, that’s who. You take a closer look at one of the pictures. You may as well see what this slob looks like.  
That is not the hair of a slob. The shape his hair takes almost reminds you of a bird, and not a single strand is out of place. You unconsciously run your fingers through your own unmanageable head jungle that on a good day might be mistaken for hair by someone with a severe vision impairment. What the fuck was with those shades? Weren’t those usually girl’s shades? And yet, they gave him the undeniable aura of a coolkid. Everything, from his record print t-shirt, loose and slightly askew, to his similarly loose posture screamed “coolkid.”  
Who even is this douche bag?  
The door clicks, swinging inward, and you turn on your heels. There he is, slouching in the doorway.  
“Yo.” He enters, kicking the door closed behind him without turning.  
“Yo? Seriously? Yo? That’s the best greeting you could come up with?” you ask.  
“Well excuse me for not breaking out the fanciest fucking welcome wagon known to man. If I thought you were going to be offended by a lazy greeting, I totally would have tried to make a better first impression.” He shrugs his backpack off onto the floor in one fluid motion. He makes a flourishing bow. “Greetings and salutations, good sir. It seems we are to be bunk mates, and it pleases me greatly to make your acquaintance.” He laces his tone with sarcasm as he speaks, like a chef might lace a fine dish with a subtle spice.  
“Fuck you.”  
He smirks, rising from his bow. “I’m Dave.”  
“Karkat.”  
He raises a single eyebrow, though it could almost not be there at all with his bleach-blond hair. “Nice to meetcha Karkat. Sorry I didn’t clean up a little more. Feel free to toss anything that gets in your way across the room. Except for my turntables, obviously. That shit is expensive.”  
“...Right.” You aren’t always your best with strangers. Hell, you were terrible with the people you knew too, but strangers were a whole new nightmare. You’ll probably make a ranting fool of yourself any minute now. Maybe if you limit yourself to short one-word responses, you can avoid it.  
Dave plops himself down on his bed, and sets up a pillow to lean his back against. “So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” he asks. Ironic little shit, isn’t he?  
“What?”  
“What are you in for? What makes you a big enough freak you wound up in here? What’s your story, Kitkat?”  
And there you go.  
“What makes you think that’s any of your butt-munching business? I don’t know you! I don’t like you! Why the hell would I tell a shit fucking maggot brain like you anything? Sorry, but being mocked by some poser coolkid and his stupid-ass friends is not on my priority list. Believe it or not, that is not a thing I lie awake at night praying will come to pass! Who the fuck just asks someone a thing like that even? You need to do the world a fucking favor and take a long walk on a short pier, Dave. Just go find yourself someone’s little private dock the size of your penis, and run a fucking marathon off it.”  
That smirk is back, that infuriating half smile that just makes you want to kiss him right in the mouth.  
Punch. You meant punch him in the mouth. Where the fuck had that thought come from?  
God damn it.

You are lying in bed, the dim light coming from the hallway creates a room full of shadows. You'd say you were trying to sleep, but you know that any attempt would be futile. Of course, your insomnia isn't helped by a certain prick who keeps asking annoying questions. “Telekinesis?” he asks.  
“No,” you snap.  
“Telepathy?”  
“No.”  
“Empathy?”  
“Do I fucking LOOK like an empath to you Strider, you fucking tool? You’re just saying the most obvious fucking things in hopes that I’ll slip up and tell you my real power just to stop stupid things from coming out of your mouth like word fucking diarrhea.”  
“See, you say you’re not psychic, and then you go and say things like- wait, was that a Mean Girls reference?”  
Your silence speaks volumes. “Shut the fuck up.”  
You’ve been attending Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters for about a week and a half, and you’ve actually grown rather fond of your room mate, not that you’d let on. Now though, he just won’t leave you the fuck alone.  
“Pyrokinesis?”  
“You fucking said that one already, and no.”  
“Come on, dude! Give me a hint.”  
“No.”  
“Please Karkles, I’m dying to know. Why won’t you tell me?” You want to yell at him for the nicknames, obnoxious as hell from day one, but then you began to find them (gag) endearing. It’s the curse of the hopeless fucking romantic, you suppose.  
“You ever think maybe it’s because you haven’t told me yours, numbnuts?” you growl.  
“Oh, well if that’s all! It’s easy: I have laser vision. I can’t believe you didn’t guess that earlier! Why do you think I wear reflective shades literally all the fucking time? Last time I went with out ‘em, I almost started a fucking house fire.” Even now, in the bed across from yours, you can see his shades reflecting some dim ambient light.  
You sit up abruptly so you can look at him. You squint at him, as though that will allow you to see past his mirrored shades. “Fucking liar, that’s not true.” You lie back down. You most definitely did not think about going over and kissing him for a minute there. it most definitely has not been a recurring impulse that makes it really difficult to keep your cool around this unfalteringly cool boy. Nope.  
“No, it’s true! I swear on my mother’s grave! ...Or at least I would, if I had a mom who was dead. I am offended that you would dare to doubt the veracity of that statement. Karkles, my word is as good as gold. Hell, if you took something I wrote down to Fort Knox, they would probably give you their entire inventory, that’s how good my fucking word is. I’m surprised that when I speak, pure gold doesn’t just come pouring out of my mouth.”  
“Yeah right, more like pure shit. If you can’t trust me to tell me the truth about your own power, why the fuck would I tell you mine, you foul-mouthed shithead?”  
“Healing! That’s it! You heal yourself, don’t you?”  
“No, Dave, I still have that paper cut I got this morning. I obviously don’t heal, you moronic crotch-sniffing scumbucket!”  
“I’m running out of options here! Was I at least close?”  
“Do me a favor and staple your shit-talking lips together.” Or don’t. They would be a lot less kissable that way. Shut the fuck up Karkat.  
“Fine, you know what? Fuck it.” He turns on the bedside light, and you swear, blinded by the sudden brightness.  
“What the cock-licking fuck Strider?” you demand.  
He seems uncharacteristically serious, as he says nothing. He just quietly reaches up and removes his shades. His eyes are red. Huh. “I don’t actually have laser vision, I’m just double the mutant really. I... can jump backwards and forwards in time.”  
“Well that’s-”  
“I swear to fucking god, if you say ‘cool,’ I will take you back in time and feed you to a brontosaurus.”  
“Brontosauruses are herbivores, assbiscut.” There’s a pause. “So I’m guessing it’s not as cool as it sounds?”  
“Afraid not. It’s mostly a great big succession of self-fulfilling clusterfucks and dead versions of me hiding around every fucking corner.”  
“Well fuck, now I have to tell you my story, don’t I?” you grumble. “You weren’t too far off with the healing thing actually. It’s my blood. I can move it, not always how I want to, I’m still learning after all, but I never run out. I would drown in my own blood before I bled to death.”  
He gives you a half smile, but this time it feels like something closer to approval than mockery. “That’s pretty badass.”  
You shake your head. “I hate it,” you say vehemently.  
He chuckles ironically. “Well then, aren’t we the pair of dirty little freaks?”


End file.
